Agro

I bumped into Cliff, Shane and Mountain as soon as I walked into the Doors. They were excited about the gig and couldn’t wait to get on stage. Overflowing with enthusiasm, as always. I asked whether they were going to need me to fill in for anyone, as I’d done on a previous occasion. Cliff managed to keep a straight face while he reminded me that they’d unplugged me from the amp as soon as they realized that I couldn’t actually play anything except air guitar. But I’d had my 15 minutes of rock stardom. I was happy to call it a day before I burned out like so many others before me, victims of their own fame.

The main dancefloor was practically empty, but the night was still a foetus. Things would get busier soon enough. I made my way upstairs, noticing how wide the stairs were. Most people took this for granted. Anyone who had spent any time at all in Image, didn’t. The toilets in Image were up a narrow flight of steel stairs. It wasn’t unusual to be making one’s way up these stairs, only to be confronted by the towering figure of a punk or skinhead teetering drunkenly at the top of the stairs, trying to make his way down. Political differences aside, the chances of the aforementioned club-goer falling headlong down the stairs were usually 50/50. Discretion being what it is, most people clenched whatever needed to be clenched and retreated to the bottom of the stairs to watch the entertainment, perhaps placing a small side-bet with any other spectators who might have joined them.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning

Till next time. Cheers.